


Merlot

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ficlet, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 14:35:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21303695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: A hobbit walks into a liquor store.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27





	Merlot

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

“That’s why you’d wrap something around it,” Feren explains, gesturing atop his head like he’s really got his hair stuffed through a cardboard toilet roll. “Then it would look fine.”

Rolling his eyes, Meludir insists, “It’d be way too tall! And if you’re just covering it with fabric or a ribbon or something, why use the toilet roll at all?”

“Because you said there’s no point keeping them after, and I’m telling you you’re wrong.”

“If that’s the best you can come up with, I’m obviously right.”

“Just watch. Next time I get down to one, I’m styling my hair with it. You’ll see.”

The store’s completely empty, so Meludir has no trouble pointing past the central display towards the back. “Go get one now. The washroom needs cleaning anyway.”

“_Ew_, no, I’m not using one from here.” Feren gives him that _look_, like he’s crazy, which is fair, because Meludir would never use anything that came out of a liquor store washroom either, but he also wouldn’t put a toilet roll in his hair in the first place. 

The little bell above the door rings, and they both straighten up, Meludir behind the counter and Feren shuffling the magazines. It’s late on a weekday, at that awkward time of year when it’s too cold outside to leave the house and it’s perpetually dark anyway. Mirkwood still has a warm hue to it, and it’s a fancier, cleaner place than Meludir’s own apartment. Combined with the fantastic pay, he doesn’t at all mind the long hours. He also doesn’t mind when no one’s around, because there’s always at least one other person working, and he generally gets along with most of his coworkers.

They’re expensive enough that most of their customers are acceptable too. Meludir’s been around long enough to know all the regulars. The person that comes inside isn’t anyone he’s ever seen before—Meludir would remember meeting a halfling. 

The hobbit wanders right up to the counter and cheerily asks, “Have you got any good Dwarven brews? Particularly anything from the Blue Mountains?”

Meludir glances at Feren. Feren looks back at him. There’s a silent moment where an entire conversation passes between their eyes. Since Meludir’s the one behind the counter, he’s the one that has to answer, “I’m sorry, Sir, but I need to see some ID.”

The hobbit blinks up at him. “Excuse me?”

“We don’t... uh...” Meludir’s not good at this. He always hates ID-ing people. But he’s also paranoid about selling alcohol to anyone underage. Fortunately, Feren, who’s better experienced and marginally better at the tough questions, comes over to join him.

Feren explains, “Sorry, but we don’t serve minors.”

The hobbit laughs. When they don’t join in, his eyebrows draw together. “Oh, you’re serious.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The hobbit pats his long coat down. His large, hairy feet are poking out beneath it, and Meludir shudders just from seeing them—he can’t believe anyone would go outside in the winter barefoot. But he’d heard that hobbits don’t do footwear. He has a friend who works at a shoe store and has never seen a hobbit in her life.

After a minute of fussing and poking around his pockets, the hobbit tells them, “I’m afraid I don’t seem to have it on me. But I assure you, I’m well over the majority!”

It’s so hard to tell with mortal races. The hobbit’s so very _short_, just like any child. His face isn’t particularly wrinkled, and his hair’s a healthy light brown, no grey insight. Meludir nudges Feren, and Feren insists, “We can’t sell you anything without ID.”

“But I’m fifty-two!”

Feren looks at Meludir. Meludir shrugs. The hobbit doesn’t at all look fifty-two. He looks _maybe_ eighteen, but Meludir really isn’t sure. It’s been so long since he was anything under triple digits. 

The hobbit huffs, “Well, alright, call your manager then.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’d like to speak to him. I’m sure we can clear this right up in a jiffy!”

There’s another short stare off. Meludir relents and moves over to the phone. They think the owner might like Meludir _slightly_ more, something Meludir truly appreciates, and he hopes bringing up this problem won’t change that. The phone rings, and then Thranduil’s smooth voice answer, _“Hello?”_

“Hi, sorry, it’s Meludir. We’ve got, um... we’ve got a situation here...”

_“Is it more dwarves? Legally, we’re allowed to refuse them service.”_

“Um, no, it’s...” He just sort of trails off. He was about to say _a child_, but that would cause unnecessary panic. 

Before he can explain better, Thranduil answers, _“Very well. I’ll be right down.”_ The phone clicks. Meludir hangs his end up.

He gives the hobbit an awkward smile and says, “He’s coming right down. He lives upstairs.”

“Does he, now?” the hobbit chuckles. “He always did like his wine a little too much, that one! Why, the stories I could tell you...”

Meludir tilts his head, confused, because there’s no way their handsome, rich, illustrious owner is friends with a probably underage hobbit. The three of them stand there for several excruciating minutes, during which Meludir starts braiding a few strands of his hair over his shoulder and the hobbit whistles while looking at lottery tickets. 

As soon as the back door opens, Meludir perks up. Feren straightens too. The delicious scent of Thranduil’s cologne precedes him, and he struts across the tiled floor like the gorgeous specimen he is. He wears a thin frown, as usual, and then he reaches the hobbit, and his eyes drop down. 

He asks curiously, “Why, Bilbo, is that you?”

“The very same,” ‘Bilbo’ answers. “You haven’t aged a day, I see. Now, what’s this about not serving me? And here I thought you said I would always be a friend to elves!”

A languid grin stretches across Thranduil’s bow lips. “And I meant it,” he promises. “I’d be happy to fetch you whatever you should like, so long as it isn’t that dreadful Dwarven swill.” Bilbo laughs merrily, and Thranduil suggests, “How about a bottle of Dorwinion Wine, on the house.”

“Well, I can’t say no to that!” Bilbo beams, and to Meludir’s astonishment, Thranduil actually wanders over to the coolers to fetch one of their most expensive bottles. He returns to present it to Bilbo without so much as glancing at the register. 

With a wink, Thranduil adds, “Just be sure not to share any with that old codger you’ve holed up with.”

“I’m sure Thorin won’t want a drop when he learns where it came from,” Bilbo chuckles, “But all’s the more for me.”

Thranduil’s grin is warm and nostalgic. Bilbo tells him, “Thank you very much,” before leaving. 

When the door’s shut, Feren asks, “So he was really fifty-two, then?”

Thranduil glances over and lifts a brow, smirking slyly. “He said that, did he? By my count, he should be a solid seventy-five.”

Thranduil leaves while Meludir and Feren are still cast in stunned silence. Then a regular elf comes in to purchase sensible Elven wine, and things are back to normal.


End file.
